


Participation Trophy

by levnons



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Bored trophy husband sick of husband sleeping with secretary, Getting Together, M/M, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Repairman Crowley, Sex Toys, Unhealthy Relationships, for Gabriel and Aziraphale, sleeps with handsome repairman instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levnons/pseuds/levnons
Summary: “You couldn’t trust workmen these days unless you were on top of them the whole time, in a manner of speaking.”The same sort of principle applies to a repairmen and a bored customer.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 150





	Participation Trophy

**Author's Note:**

> “You couldn’t trust workmen these days unless you were on top of them the whole time, in a manner of speaking.” Good Omens, page 105.

“You know,” Crowley said in between huffs, hips grinding down into the tight heat beneath him, “instead of breaking- _ah-_ all your appliances every other week, I could-“ he groaned, and leaned down to nibble up the soft incline of Aziraphale’s neck, “give you my number.”

Broad hips rolled up into his, sticky and beautiful as Aziraphale arched his back. “I have your number.”

Crowley’s breath tickled up towards the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “ _My work number._ I can give you my mobile.”

A pale hand dropped to grasp at the silky purple sheets, tugging the drenched material between manicured fingers as pink lips struggled to form words. Crowley grinned. “Yeah?” He left a trail of kisses in the wake of his own spend, skirting around it to suck one nipple into his mouth and bite. 

“Ah- Crowley-“ fingers twined between his hair and tugged. They both groaned, writhing in a sweaty mess that managed to bypass any discomfort, and was instead warm and gut wrenchingly pleasurable. “No hickies.”

“I’m sure your hubby wouldn’t notice.”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath, reply lost to the thick air of the room as Crowley thrust forward, humming, eyebrow raised at the fussy, and immeasurably bored, trophy-husband beneath him. He leaned forward, fingers pinching at the thighs wrapped tight around his waist. White teeth dragged across Aziraphale’s skin. “Well?” Another thrust, hard and rough. It rustled the bed, mattress squeaking as Aziraphale moaned. 

“He- _right there-_ would.”

Crowley paused mid-thrust, looking contemplative. “But would he care?”

Aziraphale whimpered at the loss, hips rolling up, “how would I know?”

“You’re his husband.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, reaching down to wrap a hand around his dick, squeezing at the swollen head as he arched his back, “but I’m just a trophy, my dear.”

Walls tightened, and Crowley almost released into the tight heat, frozen and _thinking,_ right there. 

* * *

The first time it happened, Crowley had honestly thought it was an accident. A coincidence. The tight pants, the bending over to point out some inconceivable fault with their oven. 

Crowley’s mind had blanched. And he had stared. 

He remembered eyeing the slightly cherubic face, gaze fluttering down to take in his _patron._ “I don’t see a ring.”

Aziraphale had examined his hands, smooth and manicured, not a day of work evident on them, and shrugged. “Forget my own head next.”

They fucked over the kitchen counter. 

Aziraphale was a coiled box of utter deviousness, laughing as Crowley bent him over the cool marble, barely listening to the muttered accusations of minx’s and being terribly unsubtle. 

“Just have to keep a close eye on workmen, you see,” he murmured afterward, tucking Crowley’s collar up to cover the beginning of a bruise.

It was not, like Crowley presumed, a one time thing. Crowley had muttered a quiet, closing goodbye as he jerked the door open, mind away with thoughts of curly hair and a plump ass. He nearly bowled into Gabriel. The husband. Tall and broad, he peered over Crowley’s shoulder, nonplused by the lanky man in his home, lips pursing at Aziraphale, who had planted himself innocently across the couch.

“What’s he done now?” Gabriel's smile was nothing short of predatory, bleached teeth bared and perfect. He nudged Crowley like one might nudge their teammate after a good game. Crowley had never been one for sports. “He’s an airhead, that one.”

Despite his worries as he slipped out, it wasn’t the last time he was there.

The building Aziraphale lived in was big. Bigger than the stack of walls that Crowley’s flat sat among. He was right at the top, floating through white walls and pristine marble benches. His husband was someone important, and he drew in enough money to afford a penthouse, and the bills of his plaything’s clumsiness. Stacks of cheque’s for broken appliances. Frayed (cut) wires, short circuiting (hit with a hammer) microwaves, and fridges that wouldn’t turn on (unplugged). Crowley was on call for all of them. 

It was why Crowley had taken to storing condoms and lube in his toolbox.

He swung it merrily, and watched the elevator arrow swing round until it blinked, before stuttering to a smooth stop.

* * *

Crowley’s teeth were currently being ground down into nothing. That, or a frustrated, untouchable wind of hornyness.

“ _Aziraphale_.”

“Yes, dear?”

There was something glistening around his hole, wet and slippery and begging to be touched. Aziraphale stepped away just as fast, robe gliding around his feet.

“Are you tempting me?” Crowley asked, pants uncomfortably tight. He checked his watch.

The thing about workmen was that, in Aziraphale’s mind, they were all extremely good looking. Toned and only a bit grubby- but in a rugged, handsome sort of way. They were confident, rough around the edges, and always disposed to a bit of flirting. 

It was five past twelve.

There was always a chance Gabriel could stop by for lunch.

Crowley swallowed.

Aziraphale was still staring up at him innocently.

“Er. I think _this_ is enough. If your bimbo finds out-“

“So what,” Aziraphale said, eyebrows raised. His hands weren’t a dithering mess, for once.

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, eyebrows pinched. “Look, Aziraphale-“

“It’s only fair,” Aziraphale sniffed, clutching his robe tighter, “ _he_ has his secretary. It’s not like it’s not mutual, even if he doesn’t like me doing it.”

Crowley froze. “Wait, he’s fucking his secretary but doesn’t want you sleeping with other people?”

Aziraphale frowned. He tied his robe together, and nodded a head towards the dishwasher. “It actually is broken. The water leaks,” he waved a hand half-heartedly, nodding wretchedly towards the tiles, “all along here.” 

Ah.

If it were anyone else, Crowley would have taken the rejection- accepted it, and moved on. Plenty of fish in the sea. All usually lacking a great ass and curly hair and wide eyes, but plenty. He was better at picking through insecurity, now. 

“I didn’t mean I don’t want to,” Crowley assured, a bit weakly. His toolbox was abandoned by the door, clamped shut and unused.

“It’s alright, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, softening. He looked tired today. His hair was ruffled, skin pale and mottled with dread. 

Crowley waved a hand through the bluff. He stepped forward, intent on nudging a grin out of him.

“So, we’re just going to ignore the dildo shoved up your ass then?”

Aziraphale flushed bright red. 

“Crowley!”

A pale hand shoved gently at his shoulder. He caught it, and tugged Aziraphale closer, loosening the tie around his waist until it came loose and his robe fell open. 

“Jesus, you really are wet down here.”

Cold too, he thought, grinning as he skirted his fingers around Aziraphale’s rim, rubbing at the red skin. He pushed at the dildo, drowning in the whimper Aziraphale hid into his shoulder.

And then the door flung open, rattling a very expensive painting (which was upside down) and jolting Aziraphale into movement. Gabriel barged inside like some sort of oversized ken doll. His suitcase landed next to Crowley’s toolbox.

Crowley withdrew his hand.

Gabriel, oblivious to the extra person in his home, shrugged off his coat, neck a swath of very small hickies. He was whistling. A tone death tune that echoed flatly around the penthouse. 

“I’ll need some other tools before I can fix this, _sir,”_ Crowley drawled. 

Gabriel hummed, back still turned.

He winked at Aziraphale, whose robe had been hastily done up, admiring the ring of red around his cheeks, before sauntering over to the door.

He offered a glistening hand to Gabriel.

“Until next time,” Crowley said, grinning toothily.

Gabriel did not shake his hand. Nor did he offer a goodbye. Or a punch to the face, thankfully, which left him feeling rather smug as he slouched into the elevator and watched the little sign flicker from 66 to 1.

Aziraphale was right. 

You couldn’t trust workmen these days unless you were on top of them the whole time, in a manner of speaking.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://levnons.tumblr.com)
> 
> discord: dent#6449


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